Sampans and junks were fishing in the calm harbor among the flotsam of broken boats. Others were arriving, bringing new settlers. And the procession of Chinese from the shore up to Tai Ping Shan had begun again.
Smoke hung over the hillside. There were a few fires amid the wreckage of hovels. But beneath the smoke was the hum of industry. Restaurants, tea and food shops and street vendors were doing business again while the inhabitants—hammering, sawing, digging, chattering—patched up their homes or began to rebuild, blessing their joss they were alive.
“Look, Culum luv,” Tess said. They were near the dockyard.
Culum was numb, his brain hardly functioning. He looked where she was pointing. On a slight hillside their almost-finished home was roofless and tilted off the foundations.
“Oh dear,” she said. “What’re we going to do?”
He did not answer. Her fear magnified as she sensed his panic. “Come on, luv. Let’s—let’s go to the hotel, then—then aboard
White Witch. Come on, luv.”
Skinner hurried up to them. His face was grimy, his clothes ripped and filthy.
“Excuse me, Mr. Culum. Where’s the Tai-Pan?”
“What?”
“The Tai-Pan. Do you know where he is? I’ve got to see him immediately.”
Culum did not answer, so Tess said, “He’s—he’s dead.”
“Eh?”
“He’s dead, Mr. Skinner. We—my—Culum saw him. He’s dead. In’t factory.”
“Oh God, no!” Skinner said, his voice thick. Just my cursed joss!
He mumbled condolences and went back to his printing shop and his demolished press. “You’re publisher-owner!” he shouted. “Of what? You’ve no press and no money to buy another, and now the Tai-Pan’s dead, so you can’t borrow from him, so you own nothing and you’re busted! Busted! What the hell’re you going to do?” He kicked the rubble, careless of his coolies who stood to one side, waiting patiently. “Why the hell did he have to die at a time like this?”
He ranted on for a few minutes and then sat on a high stool. “What’re you going to do? Get yourself together! Think!”
Well, he told himself, the first thing is to bring out the paper. Special edition. How? Handpress. “Yes, handpress,” he repeated aloud. “You’ve the labor and you can do that. Then what?”
He noticed the coolies watching him. Then you keep your mouth shut, he cautioned himself. You get out a paper then go to that helpless young idiot Culum and talk him into putting up money for the new press. You can twist him easily. Yes. And you keep your mouth shut.
Blore came in. His face was lifeless.
“Morning,” he said. “What a bloody mess! The stands’ve vanished, and the paddock. Everything. Lost four horses—the gelding too, dammit to hell!”
“The Tai-Pan’s dead.”
“Oh God!” Blore leaned against the shattered doorway. “That tears it. Oh well, thought it was too good to last.”
“Eh?”
“Hong Kong—the Jockey Club—everything. This puts the coffin on everything. Stands to reason. The colony’s a disaster. This new bugger Whalen’ll take one look and laugh himself silly. No hope now, without the Tai-Pan. Dammit, I liked him.”
“He put you up to seeing me, didn’t he? Giving me the dispatch?”
“No,” Blore said. The Tai-Pan had sworn him to secrecy. A secret was a secret. “Poor chap. Glad in a way he didn’t live to see the end of the colony.”
Skinner took him by the arm and pointed to the harbor. “What’s out there?”
“Eh? The harbor, for God’s sake.”
“That’s the trouble with people. They don’t use their heads or their eyes. The fleet’s safe—all the merchantmen! We lost one frigate aground, and she’ll be repaired and floated in a week.
Resting Cloud the same.
Boston Princess gutted on Kowloon. But that’s all. Don’t you understand?
The worst typhoon in history put Hong Kong to the test—and she came out of it with all flags flying, by God. The typhoon was huge joss. You think the admiral won’t understand? You think even that clot-headed Cunnington doesn’t know our might rests with the fleet—whatever that dumb-brained general thinks?
Sea power, by God!”
“Good Lord. You really think so?”
Skinner had already gone back inside and was shoving debris out of his way. He sat down and found a quill and ink and paper and began scribbling.
“You really think so?”
“If I were you, I’d start making plans for the new stands. You want me to print that you’re having a meet as scheduled?”
“Absolutely. Oh, jolly good! Yes.” Blore thought a moment. “We ought to start a custom—I know, we’ll have a special race. Biggest prize money of the year—last race of the season. We’ll call it the Tai-Pan Stakes.”
“Good. You’ll read it tonight!”
Blore watched Skinner writing. “Are you doing his obituary?”
Skinner opened a drawer and pushed a sheaf of papers toward him. “Wrote it a few days ago. Read it. Then you can help me on the handpress.”
Culum and Tess were still standing where Skinner had left them.
“Come on, luv,” Tess said, tugging his arm, anguished.
With an effort Culum concentrated. “Why don’t you go aboard
White Witch? I’m—I’m sure they’re anxious to—to know you’re safe. I’ll come aboard later. Let me alone for a while, will you, dear? I’ve—well, just let me alone.”
“Oh Culum, what’re we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
He saw her looking up at him and then she had gone. He walked on toward Glessing’s Point, not hearing and not seeing, time ceasing to exist for him. Oh God in heaven, what do I do?
“Mr. Struan?”
Culum felt a tug on his arm and came out of his daze. He noticed that the sun was high in the sky and that he was leaning against the shattered flagpole at Glessing’s Point. The master-at-arms was looking down at him.
“His Excellency’s compliments, Mr. Struan. Would you kindly step aboard?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Culum said, feeling drained and dull-witted.
He allowed the master-at-arms to guide him to the waiting cutter. He climbed the gangway on the flagship and then went below.
“My dear Culum,” Longstaff said, “terrible news. Terrible. Port?”
“No. No, thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Sit down. Yes, terrible. Shocking. As soon as I heard the news I sent for you to give you my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m leaving with the tide tomorrow. The new plenipotentiary sent word by Monsey that he’s in Macao.” Damn Whalen! Why the devil didn’t he wait? Damn the typhoon! Damn Dirk! Damn everything! “You’ve met Monsey haven’t you?”
“No—no, sir.”
“No matter. ’Pon me word, damned annoying. Monsey was in the residence and not a scratch. Yes, terrible. No accounting for joss.” He took snuff and sneezed. “Did you hear that Horatio was killed too?”